


Midnight Ride

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, Rape Fantasy, Secret Relationship, Smut, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a game they play. They call it the Midnight Ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Grima finally takes what he desires (bonus if oral is involved; rape fantasy fic.)
> 
> Consent is explicitly given, but regardless, this is a rape fantasy fic. There is some light bondage (with safe word), some temperature play with wax and knives, and a pretty screwy relationship dynamic. If none of these things appeal to you or will trigger you, this fic is not for you.

There is a game they play. They do not dare to name it, because it is illicit, forbidden, and to give it a name is to give it real power, to make it dangerous. So they reference it only in vague terms, carefully, like talking about a death. He refers to it, ever so casually, as  _my lady’s pleasure_ , a phrase that suggests so much but slips so easily into everyday conversation. She calls it  _my midnight ride_  and says no more about it.

It is all about her – about what she wants, and how she wants it. With one word she has the power to stop it. The word is  _blade._ It is a strong word, a safe word; it lends protection like its namesake, and it brooks no refusal.

He never comes until she asks. She asks in statements, in quick, easy phrases:  _Tonight I’ll be taking my midnight ride. Leave the gates open for me._

He will bow and simper and offer her sweet praise:  _Of course, gladly, my lady’s pleasure is my greatest concern. I shall see it done._

He is not so sweet when he comes to her at night; but then, she has asked him not to be. She likes it better when he is at his most open, desire laid bare before her in all its lustful glory. Then at least he is honest. Then at least she can see the truth of him.

She leaves the door open for him on the nights of the midnight ride. He asked for a key, once, but that broke one of the rules. The rules are that she must feel safe, even if what they play at is anything but safe. She must never feel uncomfortable or afraid. She will give control over to him, but there is always the word and the lock on her door if she happens to change her mind.

He always enters quietly. He enjoys startling her, she thinks – hiding where the torches can’t touch him, dragging her into the darkness when she least expects it. Part of it is her surprise, the startled cries she can never quite bite down on, the flash of fear that flares in her eyes and fades when she knows it’s him. But it’s more than that. Éowyn knows he doesn’t want her to see him. The darkness is his safety, as the word and key are hers.

“My lady,” he always purrs, with an intensity that heats her blood and makes her blush. “Isn’t it awfully dangerous to leave your door open this late at night? Someone might take it as an invitation.”

Some nights she is better prepared with quips and retorts. Tonight is not such a night. He is the one with the silver tongue; he can weave magic with words. Tonight, she will let him do the work. “No one intrudes on me, save you,” she says. She is having trouble focusing. His hands are on either side of her hips, splayed against the wall, so close but still not touching her. His face is but a light shadow among darker shadows; but she can see his eyes, so piercingly blue they almost hurt to look into. She has never loved a shade of blue more. “Did you come in just to warn me of intruders, or do you mean to be one?”

He smiles, and it is a deadly smile, a predator’s smile. “Guess,” he says, and leans forward to brush his lips over the pulse beating in her throat.

Oh, she would love to have his mouth upon her skin; but that is not the game, and it’s not time – not yet. She ducks under his arm and moves out of his reach, watching as his head snaps towards her, a fierce growl building in his throat. “You are bold, sir,” she tells him, folding her arms over her chest. “Too bold. The door is that way. Feel free to use it.”

He waits a second or two, testing her. She has not said the word. She will not say the word. The word is useless to her now; all she wants is him, and this, as rough and raw and forceful as he can make it.

He understands. He smiles and steps forward, brushing past her to the door. For a moment, she thinks that he will go – that he hasn’t understood at all – but then he slams the door closed and drops the bar, and she knows that things will go as planned, just as she wants them too.

She bites down hard on her lip to quash a smile. It does not fit her role to smile, but she cannot quite help it. “What are you doing?” she asks, managing a small quiver in her voice.

He turns back to her with a smirk. His eyes catch the candlelight and glitter, burning into her. His tongue dances over his lips as he looks her over. His gaze is ravenous. It’s like he’s never seen her before, like he’s still only imagining the shape of her beneath her clothes. He looks at her as though he will pounce and devour every inch of her – but not yet.

“Do you know what it is you want, Éowyn?” he says.

“Freedom,” she answers immediately.

He smiles. “Freedom? From what?”

He takes a step towards her. She shies away like a frightened horse, every nerve in her body tensing. She knows him, knows that set of his shoulders, knows that subtle tilt of his chin. He is watching her, waiting for a sign of weakness. He will take her when she gives him an opening. The longer she stands strong, the faster and more vicious it will be. “Freedom from this place,” she says. “From duty. From the things I hate doing but must do, day after day after day.”

He opens his arms, palms facing her. Such a friendly gesture, a kind gesture. A gesture of surrender. It is all an act. He is still watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake; and he will have her then. “That I can give you,” he said. “That and more. If you would but give me a chance – ”

“No,” she says, cutting him off. “I know what you would give me, and it is not the sort of freedom I seek.” That is a lie too, somewhat, at least as far as this game is concerned. This kind of freedom she will take, and gladly, in the absence of the other. She glances towards the door, to where the bar sits heavy, locking it in place. If she moves fast enough, she can lift the bar and run; and he does so love to chase her…

She dives. He catches her around the waist before she even reaches it and lifts her, kicking and crying out, from the floor. He tosses her onto her bed like she weighs nothing, sending her skidding across the furs; and then he is on her, pinning her, hands on her wrists. She struggles and squirms beneath him, already gasping. She bucks and arches against him just to let him feel her, teasing him. He growls and presses harder on her wrists, sliding his leg up between hers and slowly pressing her thighs apart. The dress she’s chosen for the night will rip easily beneath his hands, when the time comes. For now he bends and kisses her throat, a wet kiss that she knows would leave a mark, if only she would let him leave such visible evidence behind. He slides lower, to her shoulder, easing the strap of her dress free with his teeth; and here at last he bits down and sucks, hard. She winces and cries out, struggling again beneath him, trying to break free.

“You can’t,” she says, her voice breaking with longing.

He is above her again in an instant, face looming over hers. “Stop me,” he challenges, and swoops down to kiss her on the mouth. She moans against his lips and tongue, sucking violently at his bottom lip and grinding her hips against his when he manages to part her legs at last.

She does not stop him. She will never stop him. The safe word will lie dusty in some forgotten corner of her mind and she will never, ever ask to use it.

He frees one of her wrists long enough to reach down and tear the nightgown open, thin as gossamer between his fingers. It rips with a terrible sound that echoes in the darkness of her bedchamber. He settles back and sits on her hips, keeping her pinned, as he rips the gown into strips while she struggles to escape, clawing at him, pushing him away.

“Don’t you dare – ” she starts, but he catches her wrists all the same and ties them together with the remains of her nightgown and a smirk.

“For a Shieldmaiden, you aren’t putting up much of a fight,” he notes, tugging her new bonds tight around her wrists. “I expected fists, biting – a knife, at least, but – ooh.” He lets out a small purr in the back of his throat, reaching down to stroke the dagger she keeps at her thigh. Another precaution, in case it goes too far. In case he doesn’t stop when she asks. “ _There_  it is,” he says, teeth bared. He draws it out of its sheath slowly, watching her as her breath quickens and catches in her throat. He lays the cool blade against her naked belly, stroking it gently. “Surprising that you should have a knife and choose not to use it,” he says, still holding her restraints in one hand. “Dare I suggest that my lady _wants_  this?”

She bares her teeth in return, snarling like a wild cat. “Let me free and give me that dagger, and I’ll show you how much I want it.”

He laughs, a low chuckle that vibrates through the whole of her body. “I think not, sweetling. It’s  _my_ turn to play.” He yanks at the restraints, hard, pulling her arms taught. She gives an indignant yelp and struggles to pull back, but to no avail. He loops the fabric around her nearest bedpost, effectively chaining her in place. She tugs, but the fabric that tore so easily beneath his assault seems now to be made of steel.

“Oooh, no need to fight so hard,” he murmurs against her ear, tongue flicking lightly at her earlobe. “I promise that you’ll enjoy it.”

She sneers. She enjoys making him feel inferior, even here. Perhaps especially here. It makes him work so much harder to prove her wrong. “I doubt it,” she says.

His head snaps towards her again, and she knows he has taken the bait. His eyes are angry in the candlelight. In vengeance, he bites at her neck, hard, sucking on the tender flesh so hard that Éowyn can feel it bruising. She shrieks and struggles, but she can’t escape; and when he pulls back, smirking again, she snaps at him like an angry dog.

“Oh no, sweetling,” he tsks, pressing one finger delicately to the dagger still resting on her stomach. “None of that, now. Your weapons can serve me just as well as you, you know.”

Her eyes dart to the dagger and back to him. This is new. They’ve never played with knives before. The danger of it excites her, sets adrenaline rushing through her at impossibly high speeds. “You wouldn’t dare,” she says.

He smiles. “Don’t press your luck.”

He lowers his mouth to one of her breasts and takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. She gasps and arches against him, feeling the knife shift and slide across her skin. He bites down a little, cautiously, and she hisses in pain and delight. He pushes himself up and repeats himself on the other breast, lazily, eyes focused on her face as she does her best not to twitch and cry out.

Then he’s moving down, kissing around the dagger, licking and sucking and biting his way down her body. The knife sits between them like a promise, warming between their two bodies. “What are you doing?” she asks, unable to keep a small tremor from her voice.

He peers up at her, hanging just between her hips, an impish grin dancing on his lips. “Are you afraid, sweetling?”

She clenches her teeth. “Not of you. Never of you.”

The grin stays, but his eyes are serious. “Perhaps you should be.” Then the mischievous air is back, as if he has been playing all along. “But not right now. At least, not yet. Now…” He lowers his mouth to her hipbone, where it rises and arcs under her flesh, and sucks. “Rumor has it my tongue is the deadliest weapon in Rohan. Care to see what else it can do?”

He doesn’t give her time to answer. He dips between her legs and gently teases her hood with a slow, wet stroke of his tongue. Any thought of resisting immediately fades; Éowyn arches her back and moans, tugging desperately at her restraints. Oh, what she would give to bury her hands in his hair and force his mouth down onto her, force him to give her more; but he’s just teasing her now, tongue flicking lightly back and forth. Lightning sparks in her veins, sending her twitching with each touch of his tongue. Her breathing becomes a series of ragged gasps; she squirms, heedless of the knife, heedless of anything but the promise of his mouth.

A few more quick strokes, and his tongue slides lower, sliding inside her – but just barely. She curses, loudly, and yanks so hard on her restraints that the whole bed shakes. She can feel his smirk against her skin, the threat of teeth mixing with the pleasure of his tongue.

He’s moving faster now. Sometimes he’s inside her, slipping in deeper and shallower by turns; sometimes he’s teasing her nub, sucking lightly. Each change makes her twitch until she thinks she can’t hang on anymore, her fingers clutching desperately at the furs and her back arched up off the bed.

It is then that he stops, right at the precipice of her pleasure; and she screams in a terrible rage, eyes flying open, jerking violently against the silk that holds her. “Don’t you dare – ” she starts.

“What?” he mocks. “Don’t stop? Go on, princess. Beg me. I would  _love_ to hear you beg.”

This is the indignity that Éowyn always struggles with; the one thing she fights hardest to deny him. Eventually she will do it. She always does. But even now, frustrated as she is, she can’t bring herself to give in yet. She turns away and glares at her candles as if they have affronted her.

“Very well,” Gríma says, with a resigned sigh. “I suppose there are other ways to make you beg…”

He pushes himself off of her and steps off the bed. Éowyn hadn’t even realized it, but he’s still fully clothed, in a dark tunic and breeches and boots laced up to his knees. “Where are you going?” she demands, squirming on the bed. She is terribly exposed and only now truly aware of it, tied in place by her own gown. “If you mean to stay, you had best be planning to take those clothes off.”

He arches a brow at her. “So impatient,” he says, turning casually towards the door, his back to her.

A small wave of panic washes over her. “You don’t mean to leave, do you?”

He laughs. “As amusing as that might be, no,” he says. He keeps his back to her as he unbuttons his tunic and shrugs it off, leaving it in a heap on the floor. He drops into a chair near her table and unlaces his boots, kicking them off. His eyes, she notes, are on the candles. “No, I’m afraid I’m terribly selfish, and can’t bear to leave without being sated myself. Fortunately, patience is a virtue I happen to possess in spades… so there’s time for us both yet, pet.”

His boots removed, Gríma reaches out and plucks a candle from the candelabra on the table. He turns back to her with a smile that borders on murderous, the candle hot and overflowing with molten wax in his fingers. “If ever you meant to use your word, precious, now might be the time,” he says, rising approaching her slowly. He focuses his gaze on the candle, and Éowyn’s heartbeat begins to race, frantic with curiosity and fear.

“Why?” she asks, gaze also transfixed on the candle. “What do you mean to do with that, exactly?”

He smirks and climbs onto the bed once more, kneeling over her body with the candle in his hand. “Would you like to find out?” he purrs.

For a second – just for a second – she thinks about the word. It promises her safety. It promises her an escape. He will untie her and go and whatever he means to do with that candle will forever be a mystery, and perhaps she will be the happier for it.

But his eyes promise a thousand forbidden delights, a thousand ways to forget; and she wants, more than anything, to forget.

“Do your worst,” she says.

He smiles, a vicious smile that unfurls like a steel flower, and then gently tips the candle forward.

Hot wax spills over the edge and drops onto the peak of her breast, sending her hissing in surprise. It hurts, yes; but there is something incredible about the heat, the sensation of the wax dripping over her flesh and hardening in long lines. He waits a moment, then tips the candle again; and this time she’s ready, and when it hits a tiny cry that could almost be a moan escapes her lips.

He leans back and tips the candle again, lower, right over the knife. Some of the wax is caught on the knife, but it oozes over onto her skin, cool steel and hot wax together, and this time the sound that is torn from her is without question a moan, a sharp, plaintive cry for sensation.

He drips the wax lower, down the muscled plane of her stomach to her hips and to her thighs, each one in turn, leaving long, liquid marks all down her skin. Perhaps there will be burns left behind in the morning; Éowyn doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. The heat is delicious, warming her to her very toes, shocking her and exciting her. The anticipation of the next drop could almost kill her.

He tips the candle gently onto the tender flesh between her legs, and she screams, pain and delight mingling in her core. He bares his teeth again and slides one of the fingers of his free hand inside her, gently stroking the wetness within, and lets another drop fall onto her hood. She screams again, louder this time, and the plea is torn from her at least: “Please, please, oh,  _please_ …”

He tilts the candle back and stills his finger. “Please, what, precious?”

She squirms desperately, the sudden halt of sensation infuriating her. “Please – ”

He slips another finger inside her and strokes slowly. She makes a sound more akin to a bird’s cry than a human’s. “Please,  _what_?” he growls, going still again.

The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them, a heated blush spreading to every inch of her body. “Please, I need you inside me –  _please_ …”

He smirks and withdraws his fingers, pausing to lick them clean of the taste of her. His eyes flutter closed as he savors the flavor, and Éowyn licks her lips, desire flaring hotter at the display.  _Bastard._

“Very well,” he says, settling back on his heels. “Since you beg so prettily…” He reaches down to the laces of his breeches and slowly, slowly begins to undo the knot. Éowyn watches, transfixed, and begins to squirm again, desperate to get her hands on him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, raising a finger. “Look, don’t touch.”

She grinds her teeth and tugs harder at her restraints. “That’s not fair – ” she starts, but pauses midsentence as the laces are finally completely undone.

He grins. “You didn’t ask to touch,” he says, climbing on top of her. He gently plucks the knife from her belly and sets to the side, still close at hand if he decides he wants it. He catches her hips and angles them upwards, carefully positioning the tip of his cock at her entrance. She shudders in desperate pleasure, heart pounding in her ears. “You asked,” he murmurs, “For this.”

One sharp thrust, and he’s inside her at last, filling the aching space between her legs. She moans, throwing her head back in delight, as he slowly starts to pull back out of her; then he thrusts back again, eliciting another cry.

“There, sweetling,” he purrs as he withdraws once more. “Better?”

She bites her lip and arches her back against the bed. Oh, it is better, and yet it’s so much worse – she wants it harder, wants him deeper, wants to hear him moaning as he has made her moan. “More,” she demands, tugging futilely at her restraints.

He pauses mid-thrust, lingering over her. “I’m sorry, was that a command that just passed your lips?” His eyes are cold in the candlelight, cold and unforgiving. He will make her beg for this one, too, it seems; will make her beg for every last inch.

She whimpers, grinding against him, her legs trembling. “No, no, no,” she says, frantically shaking her head. “No, please,  _please –_ ”

“Hmm.” He begins to withdraw again, almost all the way out of her. Desperate, she wraps her legs around his waist and urges him back to her, biting her lip.

“Please,” she whispers.

He’s started to flush in the candlelight, pallid skin tinged with a warm, red blush. His breath catches in his throat, and she knows then that the power here is truly hers; he wants to give her what she is demanding, wants it more than he can dare to show. He licks his lips and bites down on his tongue, trying to maintain his composure. “How much more?” he asks.

She darts up to kiss him on the mouth, hard. He growls, and kisses her in return, eagerly pressing his body to hers. She pulls back, panting, and whispers, “Harder.”

He moans at last, a long, low moan torn from the back of his throat, and thrusts into her up to the hilt. “Oh,  _yes,_ ” Éowyn cries, tightening her legs around his waist; and with that he loses any semblance of control, and takes her hard and fast.

Éowyn wants to cling to him, to rake her nails down his back and hear him cry out at the pain, but the restraints are still holding her and all she can do his bite into his shoulder. She nearly draws blood with the bite, and Gríma hisses, sinking his teeth into her shoulder in return. His fingers curl around her hips and push her down the length of him, and he reaches an even deeper place inside her, sending fire through her veins. She screams, helpless beneath him, as he hits it again and again and again. Oh, she will melt and die from this sensation, or else burst into flame and be left a pile of ash.

“Grim,” she gasps, the word almost a sob.

His voice cracks around her name as he says it. “Éowyn!”

She nuzzles his neck and murmurs, “Please… I want to touch you.”

Gríma growls and grabs for the knife, slashing the ties that bind her to the bedpost. The moments he takes to do so are some of the longest of the night; he is infuriatingly still, cutting her free. For a moment she wonders if it’s worth it. But then her hands are free at last, remnants of the binding still upon them; and she throws her arms around him and drags him down to kiss her again, moaning into his mouth with the first new thrust.

“Take me,” she pants, clutching at his back. “Oh, yes, take me, make me scream for you – oh –  _oh –_ ”

Her pleasure starts to spiral upward, her molten hot core finally threatening to spill over. Her moans turn into punctuated screams; her legs shake violently in Gríma’s hands, against his hips. She coils into a tight ball around him, arching upward one last time, and gives a single keening cry as she comes, her arms tight around his neck. A few thrusts later, and he comes too, with a ragged moan that makes every muscle in Éowyn’s body tighten and coil with wanting.

He collapses on top of her, gasping for breath; she strokes his hair and murmurs nonsense phrases to ease him out of his bliss. He wraps his arms around her waist and clings to her like he’s a drowning man and she’s the only raft left intact. “Éowyn,” he murmurs at long last, lips pressed to her throat.

“Mmm.” She is weary, so weary now. All she wants is to sleep. She tucks his head under her chin and lets him press as close as he can to her body. “Go to sleep,” she says.

He strokes her skin tenderly, and hesitates for a moment before saying, “Did you enjoy your midnight ride, my lady?”

She smiles a little and plants a kiss on his forehead. “You know I always do.”


End file.
